


Day 5: Moments

by illusemywords



Series: A Wilde Week 2020 [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: A Wilde Week 2020 (Rusty Quill Gaming), Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Letters, M/M, Pre-Relationship, This Is How You Lose The Time War AU, Time Travel, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27646325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illusemywords/pseuds/illusemywords
Summary: Two agents. Circling each other. Always in each other’s way, never in each other’s company. Always just a second too late, just a moment too early. They’re on opposite sides, and yet they can’t stay away from each other. This is a selection of moments.Or, the This Is How You Lose The Time War AU no one asked for.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Series: A Wilde Week 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016710
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17
Collections: A Wilde Week 2020





	Day 5: Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skvadern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skvadern/gifts).



> Day 5 - “Patriotism is the virtue of the vicious” 
> 
> **Meritocrats/Harlequins** | Virtues | Viciousness
> 
> If I had thought of this earlier this might have been longer and more thought out but I didn't so _yeet._
> 
> Also, if you've never read This Is How You Lose The Time War do yourself a favor and do that right now. It is miles better than this fic.

When Zolf wins, he doesn’t celebrate.

There is no time for that.

He stands alone in the remains of the conflict, the lone survivor in what was once upon a time the last battle for a city called London.

This is nothing more to Zolf than one more victory for his superiors, one step closer to the end of this seemingly eternal war.

This is how it always goes. Zolf doesn’t lose battles. Winning is what the Harlequins made him for. Everything is as it should be, corpses littering the ground everywhere he looks, nothing out place – or?

It takes time before he notices it from where he stands. Frankly, it takes longer than it should.

It’s a letter. 

There should not be a letter here, on this field of broken bodies.

Despite all the work the Harlequins have done to make him the perfect soldier, some humanity has managed to sneak its way in through the cracks. And what is more human than curiosity.

He picks it up, despite his better judgement. It is one single sheet of crisp, clean paper, empty except for a single line written in an elegant, loping script. _Burn before reading._

It’s a trap. It has to be. He should leave. He needs to leave. Zolf knows this, and yet.

He fishes a lighter out of the pocket of a long dead soldier. Clicks it until the small flame appears. He watches as the paper is consumed by the flame, leaving behind long lines of script. He reads it, mouth twisting bitterly as his eyes move over the words.

The flames burn his fingers as the signature appears. He lets the remains fall to the earth, and then he leaves. The planes shift for him easily, letting him leave the battle behind as he moves on to the next mission.

The letter reads:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

A little joke. I trust that you are familiar with the source material, and if you are not, well, then I guess the joke’s on me.

I hoped you’d come.

I will confess, I had been growing bored with it. The war, the battles, the meaninglessness of it all. And then you appeared.

Ever since our eyes first met in that apartment in Paris in the 19th century, I have been thinking of you. You’re unlike any other Harlequin I’ve met. You were clearly purpose made, like me, but there is a spark to you I have not encountered anywhere else before. It tastes like hope.

If nothing else, you brought some new life to your side’s efforts when you appeared, and for that I am grateful. It means that at the very least, beating you will take some effort. Therefore, read my gratitude in these words as they are swallowed by the flame. Commit them to memory, as you will not get to read them again.

I do not intend to brag. But we have already won.

Fondly,

Oscar.

* * *

When Oscar wins, he revels in the satisfaction.

He shouldn’t, he’s not meant to, but there’s only so much he can do. Sometimes he just wants to have a little fun. And, well, he’s the best agent the Meritocrats have. Even if he sticks around for a few moments longer than necessary, he is always faster than the others, more thoroughly successful.

He stands in the ruins of Ancient Rome, this time. There was a disturbance to take care of, the matter of sowing the right seeds in the right minds. And he had managed, of course. Because Oscar always wins. There is no twinge of annoyance in him, because he did what the mission required.

He should have already moved on, but something caught his eye as he was preparing to leave.

It is not a letter, this time, like the one he left in London years in the future. It is a flower, its petals shockingly white, as if all its colours had been drained from it at once. It should not grow here, in these ruins of civilisations. In this place where the war began, where the war will never end.

He picks the flower, careful to leave the roots in the ground. This is war, yes, but where he can, he tries to leave behind as little destruction as possible. He wonders if Zolf would appreciate it.

What he’s doing is foolish, he knows. This could be a trap, a poison meant to destroy the Meritocratic effort. But somehow, he doesn’t think it is.

He tastes the words on his lips as the bitter petals hit his tongue.

The letter reads:

My infuriating Oscar,

How does one begin something like this? I cannot remember the last time I started a conversation. I’m not very skilled at it, as I’m sure you can tell. But the books I have read tell me letters usually start by addressing the recipient. I have done so. Then follows their shared business.

I am sorry you never saw my shadow. She is important, or at least her children will be, once she escapes the ruins that your side has wrought on the world in Ancient Rome. Or, I should say, she was my shadow. Now she is my boss. Funny how time works, like that. It is funny that we should pass each other here, in the place where our paths both begin and diverge.

I do remember you, that is true, but I think you’ll find you’re wrong about who will end up winning this war. Our side is the clearly superior one. We are winning on every plane.

I am sure, in the minds of your superiors, this mission is complete. But we both know that you wanted to do more. You wanted to end this war, here and now, in the place where it all began. And you will have to live, knowing that you failed.

And knowing that I was watching as you did.

Thank you for your letter. I probably shouldn’t say this, but I look forward to your future correspondence. I will be looking for them, throughout time.

My regards to the ruins of your ego, and of Rome,

Zolf.


End file.
